


Cold Blooded

by TalkingGrape



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Eating Disorder, I fuck our spidey baby UP, Just to list a few of the more major triggers, Rape, Self Harm, Suicide mentions, TW: literally anything and everything, Underage - Freeform, Violence, its all paternal tony stark yall, no tony/peter in this btw, seriously, there is no room for any of that shit in here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-01-22 02:24:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12471364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TalkingGrape/pseuds/TalkingGrape
Summary: Peter is way too good at keeping secrets. May and Tony take some parenting lessons from Michelle and Ned. Spiderwebs are very good at gluing broken friendships back together. Science is cool. Spiders can't thermoregulate. It's hard to summarize a fic you haven't finished writing yet.





	1. Anticlimactic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has five secret admirers and a new disdain for the smell of bleach. I'm so sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't beta read and I'm too lazy to fix my own mistakes so have fun with this grammatical sin of a fic. Also everything that happens in this chapter is just god awful torment and I hate myself for writing it. Enjoy.

* * *

 

At some point during last period a slip of paper was placed inside Peter’s locker simply stating two things: a time and a place. Boy’s locker room, three o’clock. In retrospect, it should’ve been suspicious, but as the old saying goes, curiosity squished the spider.

 

Of course Peter knew that it was odd that someone would put a note in his locker without even signing it. Of course he’d been shoved in enough lockers to know that it was stupid to go in without asking Ned to wait for him outside. Of course the entire situation reeked of a setup of some sort, but he was Spider-man. It was nothing he couldn’t handle. Right?

 

Wrong, wrong, wrong, god he was so wrong.

 

* * *

 

The slip of paper was clutched in his hand as Peter entered the locker room three minutes before the specified time, a heavy feeling of apprehension having settled over him. Something wasn’t right. Every nerve in his body was on edge, screaming at him that something was wrong. Something was happening. But if it was so bad, he had to find out what it was and stop it, right? That’s what he did, that was his job.

 

As far as he could tell, three minutes was just early enough that no one else had arrived yet. At least he had the advantage of being the first one th-

 

The thought was cut off abruptly as heavy feeling of dread overtook all of his senses, a quiet shuffling noise sounded behind him. Something that anyone else would have totally missed. He turned just in time to see the business end of a baseball bat. He put his hand up to stop the impact just a second too late, cold aluminum came in contact with his nose and cheek. He heard more than felt it when his nose roughly snapped to the side from the hit, blood immediately covering his mouth and chin. He was going to have a bitch of a time setting that before it healed and stayed that way…

 

“Fuck that was supposed to knock him out.”

 

“Knock him out? You could’ve killed him! What if you gave him some kind brain damage?”

 

“Then maybe he won’t remember this.”

 

Oh yeah. People. There were other people. Peter pinched the bridge of his nose, wincing at the pain as he tried to focus on the conversation. That hit may not have knocked him out, but it was more than enough to effectively daze him.

 

He barely had time to react before there was a hand in the center of his chest, pushing him back onto his ass. A foot replaced his hand, pinning him down while someone else grabbed his wrists and- wait, were those… handcuffs? His hands were bound around the base of a bench that was effectively bolted to the ground. He could probably break free if he worked at it for a bit. After-all he doubted the cuffs were police grade, he could warp the metal no problem. And risk his secret getting out to the entire school and then Aunt May… He was already on thin ice with his lie about being super into cosplaying as Spider-man, he doubted she’d believe that after literally everyone else in Queens found out his identity.

 

Peter had been bullied before, he could take a quick after-school beating. Besides, if he was the one taking the beating, then some other poor kid got out of it. Silver linings.

 

Having made his decision, Peter closed his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable contact of fists and feet as his attackers beat him down simply for having a higher GPA than them… But it never came.

 

“Would you hurry up?”

 

“Hold on, the fluorescent lighting in here is-“

 

“Oh for christ’s sake, we’re making a snuff film not putting an artistic piece up for consideration in a film festival. Give me that.”

 

Cracking open his eyes, Peter was confused to see the source of the two voices fiddling around with a camera set up on a tripod. Even more confusing, was the fact that their faces were covered with two Iron-man masks.

 

There was the distinct sound of the door opening and closing and Peter sighed in relief. Someone was coming, they’d see what was going on and put a stop to it, he’d be-

 

“You guys are late.”

 

Three more figures in matching Iron-man masks entered the room, making up excuses as to why they were late and the heavy ball of dread in Peter’s stomach grew. Something was extremely not right. This was so much more than just an after-school beat down. The realization was quickly followed by Peter throwing caution to the wind, frantically struggling with the cuffs around his wrists and praying that he could break out before whatever was about to happen, happened.

 

A rough hand fisted in his hair, yanking his head forward until he was face-to-mask with one of the five Iron-men. “Smile for the camera, Parker.” His head was forcibly turned towards where the camera was set up on the tripod, blinking red light signaling that this was all being recorded. The back of his head hit against the tile floor as the hand released its grip on his hair.

 

Five masked faces circled above him, and Peter could only imagine the smug smirks that were hidden behind the masks. They all wore similar outfits, black shirts, plain jeans, knock-off brand Converse. This wasn’t only planned, this was orchestrated. Did they know his secret? What did they plan to do with Spider-man? Peter tried to think of what these strangers could possibly gain from torturing Spider-man in the boy’s locker room, but his thoughts were effectively cut off when one of the Iron-men pulled a knife from his pocket.

 

Peter’s frantic struggles with the cuffs resumed, cold metal cut into his wrists as he attempted to stutter out a plea for mercy. “W-wait, please. Y-you don’t have to-“ A rough hand around his throat pinned him down to the ground, the cold of the floor seeping through his shirt and making goosebumps break out over his skin. Or maybe it was just the eerie situation in general that was doing that. Peter froze up as the cold blade of the knife came in contact with the skin just above the collar of his shirt and the words one of the Iron-men said earlier echoed through his mind. They’re making a snuff film. They’re using him to make a fucked up and bloody home video. Peter was caught between doubling his struggles with the cuffs and holding as still as possible so he didn’t accidentally impale himself on the pocket knife when the sound of fabric ripping caught his attention.

 

The cold air of the locker room hit his now exposed, and mostly unharmed, chest. His skin stung in a few places where the knife had grazed, small amounts of blood beading in the shallow cuts, but other than that he was fine. They were just… toying with him? The sound of a zipper being undone brought him out of his confusion and back into reality just in time for him to realize that it was /his/ zipper that was being undone. His pants were tugged down to his knees and it finally donned on him what was going on. “N-no, wait, wait. Please. P-please don’t do this, I-I’ll do anything, anything but that, please.” He tugged on the cuffs again, he could feel the metal bend with his struggles, but still it wouldn’t give. Maybe they were police grade.

 

Hands brushed against his hips as someone moved to pull down his boxers and Peter felt his cheeks heat up in embarrassment as the rest of his body was exposed to the five masked figures as well as the camera. He kicked his legs as they struggled to pull his pants off his ankles, putting up as much of a fight as he could, praying that they’d just deem it too difficult and give up. He knew it was unlikely (see: entirely impossible), but it was worth a shot.

 

“Who wants to go first?”

 

Peter’s breath caught in his throat. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. This kind of thing happened to other people. He saved people from this kind of thing. He was fucking _Spider-man_ for christ’s sake. He was a superhero, not a victim.

 

A blinding pain shot through him and oh god he was going to tear in two, how the hell was this even possible, he was going to fucking die, oh god oh god oh god-

 

That hand was back in his hair, pulling his head up so his teary eyes could meet the icy blue ones behind the mask of the guy that was hurting him. “Stop struggling, or I’ll make it hurt.”

 

If Peter wasn’t sure it’d just come out as a broken sob, he would’ve laughed. Make it hurt? How was it possible to hurt more than it already did?

 

Rough hands grabbed onto his hips with a bruising grip and then the guy was _moving_ and, fuck, it was totally possible. Peter couldn’t stop the pained cry that fell from his lips as he was sure he was being ripped in two. The minutes dragged on like hours as dizzying pain traveled up his spine, forcing moans of pain from him as his muscles twitched wildly in a pathetic attempt to get away from the source of the pain. His arms jerked against the handcuffs that still held him in place as he tried to curl in on himself and away from the grip on his hips and the blinding pain between his legs. Someone was crying, begging, pleading for it to end and- oh. That was him.

 

Just when the pain seemed to become entirely unbearable, the man pinning him down tightened his grip on Peter’s hips even more, letting out a gravelly moan as he came inside Peter. Peter let out a choked whine, tense body visibly relaxing when the man finally pulled out of him. His chest felt like a heavy weight was lifted off of him and he could finally just _breathe_ -

 

And then another pair of hands were on his hips and someone else was at his entrance and he couldn’t do this again, not again, please no- Peter bit down on his tongue hard as the man forced himself inside him, he tasted blood. Maybe he broke the skin? Or maybe it was from his broken nose, he couldn’t tell. Tears fell down his cheeks and mixed with the mess of blood and snot on his face and he felt more than heard himself beg for it to end. And then the man holding him down had the _audacity_ to wipe away his tears in a mock act of comfort, laughing as he did so. “Oh please, Parker, don’t act like you don’t love it. Everyone knows Stark likes em young, he probably has you bent over his desk every weekend for your ‘internship.’ Why don’t you be a good little slut and move your hips for Mr. Stark?”

 

At least Peter knew why they were wearing the Iron-man masks now. They were mocking him, adding insult to humiliating injury. All he could do was wait for it to end, burying his face in his arm in an attempt to hide from the camera and brace for the seemingly endless pain.

 

A cold, rough hand grabbed his chin, forcing him to face the camera. It had only been maybe twenty minutes, but to Peter it felt like hours. He was already exhausted. He barely fought the grip on his face, his wrists still idly tugging on the cuffs even though he had long since resigned himself to this hell. The eternity before Peter’s current attacker finished inside him seemed a little shorter than the first one, and for that he was grateful. At least, until a third man knelt down, grabbing his thighs and forcing himself inside him.

 

Frantic cries turned to mumbled and borderline unintelligible pleas for mercy as Peter’s struggles died down and gave way to exhausted compliance. They all took turns using him until he was numb, his body tuning out the pain as his brain did its best to play dead.

 

Finally, the last one finished having his fun and the cuffs were loosened. Peter pulled his shaking hands to his chest, curling up on his side but otherwise making no move to get up. He just… just needed a moment.

 

He wasn’t going to get a moment. He tried, he really did, but his limbs didn’t listen to him as he was picked up and forced to straddle one of the men’s waists so that he was facing the camera, back pressed against his attacker’s chest. Hands grabbed his hips, forcing him to ride the man’s cock. Every weak move he made in a feeble attempt to escape made him painfully aware of the other man inside him. Every time he so much as breathed he felt his abused insides being teased and tortured. Pleasure mixed in with the overbearing pain, and Peter hated himself for it. He hated every whine of pain that came out a moan. He hated every time his breath hitched in his throat as he was forced to roll his hips back onto the cock inside him. He hated the way he was responding to the hand that reached around to stroke him. He hated the way that he subconsciously bucked up into the hand, desperate for something, anything that wasn’t the unbearable pain he felt inside.

 

“What a good little whore, moving all on your own.” A hand brushed through his hair, a gesture of approval. But he wasn’t, he couldn’t be. He wouldn’t willingly submit to this, this- another strangled moan forced its way out of his throat. He thought he had long cried himself out, but tears once again traced fresh tracks down his cheeks as he realized that he _was_ moving on his own. He was bucking his hips into the hand around his cock, all but giving the man permission to take advantage of him.

 

The plastic Iron-man mask scraped against his skin as the wearer began to bite into the skin where Peter’s neck and shoulder met. It wasn’t the kind of bite that just left behind a little hickey, and it sure as hell wasn’t a love bite. It was the kind of bite that broke skin and drew blood and _hurt like hell_ and yet Peter was still moaning like a whore and rolling his hips and fuck he was getting close, _so close_. And then a hand tightened painfully around his cock, so tight he was sure it was going to leave a bruise and he was already so covered in bruises and bite marks and he had no idea how he was going to hide any of this from Aunt May…

 

A broken whine made its way out of Peter’s mouth and _god he sounded pathetic_. The man that was holding Peter in his lap laughed, his free hand trailing down his side in a way that could have been mistaken as gentle if it hadn’t been for the circumstances. “Beg for it.”

 

Peter’s face was hot with shame and tears dripped off his chin as he shook his head, not trusting his voice enough to actually say no. The hand around him tightened and _hurt fuck it hurt so fucking bad._ He’d do anything to make it stop. Just make it all end. Even…

 

“P-please. I n-need to c-cum.”

 

The man behind him laughed, his chest rumbling against Peter’s back. He didn’t really get what was so funny.

 

“That’s Mr. Stark to you.”

 

And again, the grip on him grew tighter, drawing a strangled breath from him. “P-please! Please, M-Mr. Stark, l-let me cum.”

 

“Good boy.” The man finally released his grip on him. His sigh of relief came out more as a sob and Peter knew what he was going to be asked to do before the man holding his hips even said it. “Ride my cock until you cum like the little whore you are.”

 

Through teary eyes, Peter glanced to the door. It was _right there_ all it would take was someone walking through that door and it would all end. All it would take was a few steps and he could make it through that door- Without realizing it, Peter had leaned forward, his thoughts of escape physically broadcasting themselves to his captors. A rough hand wound into his hair, pulling hard enough that his mouth fell open in a silent cry as his spine arched to allow for the awkward angle his head was being forced into. “I said, _move._ ”

 

The grip on his hair wasn’t loosening, but Peter managed to roll his hips in a way that caused minimal pain. After a few moments, the man must’ve been satisfied that Peter was being compliant. The hand in his hair moved back to his hips and the teeth were back at his neck and shoulders as Peter followed orders and rode the man’s cock.

 

He moved quickly, hoping that if he made the man cum first he would be let off easy, but every movement stirred up his insides in the worst of the best ways and shame weighed heavy in his chest as he felt himself grow closer and closer to climax until he was crying out in regret and relief as he finally came. The muscles in his abdomen twitched and spasmed as he struggled to catch his breath. But his captor still wasn’t finished, the grip on his hips tightened once again as he was bent over the bench he had previously been cuffed to. A rough hand came down on his ass and surprise and pain made him cry out. “Say thank you.”

 

“Th-Thank you-“

 

Another slap, this one harder. “Thank you _who_?”

 

“Thank you, M-Mr. Stark.”

 

“ _Again._ ” Another slap.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

 

This time the slap was replaced with a rough thrust into him and Peter cried out in shock. There was a pause of silence and Peter knew what was coming. Without Prompting, he once again spoke. “Th-thank you, Mr. Stark.” Another thrust punctuated with a ‘thank you.’ And another. And another. And another, until, finally, ‘Mr. Stark’ was moaning and his thrusts grew erratic to the point where Peter couldn’t keep up and then he was cumming inside Peter, letting go of his hips and letting him slump over the bench.

 

Another hand was in his hair not soon after that, and he was so sure that hair didn’t have nerves and yet there he was, completely positive that his hair hurt from being pulled and tangled up in fists so many times. He didn’t even struggled when a cock forced itself past his lips and teeth, touching the back of his throat and making him gag. He couldn’t breathe and he was sure he was going to throw up from how many times he was gagging around the obstruction in his throat, but at the very least he had a slight reprieve from being fucked in the ass. He didn’t even have to make an effort as the hand in his hair moved his head for him. Without warning, something hot and thick spilled down his throat and then over his face. It was salty and disgusting and he moved to spit it out, but a hand covered his mouth and he was forced to swallow it down, choking and gagging as he did so.

 

He wasn’t stupid enough to think it was over yet, however. Because of course it wasn’t. Again, he was picked up and placed in someone’s lap, his hands on the man’s bare shoulders as he was fucked past senseless. His nails dug into the man’s shoulder as pain and pleasure rode over him, his stomach twisting in knots. More bites and bruises piled up on his collar and neck and all he could do was hold on for dear life and whimper with each rough thrust inside him.

 

At some point, Peter just lost track of how many times he was passed around and used. The minutes stopped feeling like hours and started feeling like blurry seconds. Pain, shame, confusion, and pleasure all washed over him in waves until he was finally dropped to the floor of the shower and someone was saying something about evidence and then a cold spray of water was washing over him. Blood tinted water washed down the drain and someone grabbed one of his wrists. He looked up through tears and water and saw the blurry form crouching over him hold something to his ring finger.

 

And then an unearthly scream ripped through his throat as his fingernail was pulled from his nailbed, his arm jerking as he struggled to pull his hand free before it happened again. A heavy shoe on his back pinned him to the ground and in a brief moment of clarity all Peter could think was that if these men had any mercy, they’d kill him once they were finished. Nine more times, one by one, Peter’s fingernails were ripped out. Every time he struggled and fought, finally understanding why this was used as a way to torture information out of people. But he had no information to exchange to stop the pain, all he could do was endure it until it was finally over and his hand was being dropped into the puddle of bloody water that had formed around him.

 

Peter was vaguely aware of the shower being turned off as he was rolled onto his back. Then someone was straddling his waist and a hand was in his mouth, forcing it open. Were they seriously not finished with him yet? He heard something plastic fall to the floor and there was a white bottle was being tipped over his head. Then the smell of bleach hit him. He didn’t even have time to close his eyes before the toxic substance was being poured over his face and into his mouth. He instinctively cried out, choking on bleach and gagging, moving to roll over and spit out the substance but unable to as he was still being pinned down. He felt the liquid burn down his throat and within seconds he was vomiting. Finally the weight on top of him moved and he rolled to his side, bile and cafeteria pizza spilling out on the floor beside him. The rest of the bottle was emptied over him and rough hands scrubbed over his body, clawing out his insides in an attempt to rid him of any evidence. Again, the shower was turned on and finally, _finally_ the masked men filed out of the room. The sound of the door opening and closing barely registered with Peter as he laid under the scalding hot spray of water.

 

They had gotten rid of DNA evidence, yes, but there was still evidence. He could feel it. They had left their marks on him in the form of bites and bruises, and they may have cleaned his skin with bleach, but he could still feel the dirt and grime inside him. He could feel their hands on him and their cocks inside him. They used him and tortured him mercilessly, tossing him to the ground to pick himself up when he could finally feel his legs again.

 

His skin itched from the chemicals and his eyes burned. His stomach was still rolling inside him and he dry heaved every few moments. He felt sick and used and disgusting, but most of all he felt disappointed. Disappointed that they weren’t even kind enough to kill him once they were finished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I update about as regularly as a dead man breathes, but I do already happen to have some of chappy 2 written, so maybe you'll at least see that much one day.


	2. Shock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Peter's mind, home is safety. Nothing can touch him there. Nothing can hurt him. Not even thoughts. 
> 
> He's getting really sick of being wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... I'm not dead, that's the good news, right? Bad news is if you don't want to be left on a bit of a cliffhanger for what may be another month at the very least, you should hold off on reading this. Or read it over and over again and drive yourself insane. I'm not your mother. I know it's short (shorter than I'm used to writing for sure) but I decided to split chappy 2 into two parts so I can (hopefully) upload more frequently from now on.

The human mind, even a human mind recently altered by mutant spider DNA, can only hold on to one thought for so long. A simple sentence can only be torn apart and reconstructed so many times before the next thought comes tumbling through to replace it. And so it was inevitable when Peter’s thoughts went from ‘why didn’t they just kill me’ to ‘this isn’t enough.’ The flow of water that poured from the showerhead above wasn’t enough to get the itchy burn of bleach out of his pores and the way he was laying had his bloodied hands just out of range of the spray of water. The shitty school water heater made the water temperature go from lukewarm to scalding every few seconds and Peter wished it would just stay scalding so it would burn the filth out from beneath his skin. He could feel his pulse in his fingertips and the idle thought that denailing was a form of torture used to extract information from prisoners drifted into his mind, replacing the previous thoughts of his need for soap. He could definitely understand why it was so effective in pulling information out of prisoners, only Peter didn’t have any information to exchange in order to keep his fingernails intact. All ten of them were ripped from his nail beds and he wondered if it was possible that they might just not grow back. He was pretty sure he read somewhere that that was a thing that could happen.

 

‘I should get up.’ The next thought came trailing in, effectively booting his contemplation of how spiders didn’t have fingernails and so it would totally make sense that a Spider-Man wouldn’t have fingernails either from his mind.

 

He didn’t get up.

 

He couldn’t stop staring at his hands. At some point he sat up, the water running down his arms and over his bloodied nailbeds and he was sure it was supposed to hurt, but he didn’t feel pain so much as the absence of pain. It was kind of like when he had gotten his wisdom teeth out and he was high off his ass on painkillers all day. He distinctly remembered knowing that he should’ve felt pain, he had just had his teeth ripped out of his skull, but he didn’t feel anything. It was like that. Like he knew it should’ve hurt, but all he could feel was his own pulse. His heartbeat and the sound of running water was all he was really aware of as he watched his fingers turn to prunes under the spray of the shower.

 

And then he got up. He didn’t really make a decision to stand up, it was more or less something that just happened as a result of him realizing that his Aunt was supposed to get home at eight and he had no idea what time it was or how long he had been just lying on the floor. So, Peter slowly stood up off the floor, reaching over and shutting off the shower before fumbling around for something to dry himself off with. He ended up using his shirt, it wasn’t good for much else anyways since it had effectively been cut off of him.

 

It was harder to get dressed than he had expected. All the numbness in his body was starting to fade and buttoning up his jeans was damn near impossible with the hellfire that was radiating from his fingertips. Walking wasn’t much better either as he limped his way through the dark halls of the school towards his locker to grab the hoodie he had left in there the previous day. Finally dressed, Peter grabbed his backpack out of his locker and rifled around until he found his phone, feeling a strange mix of relief and panic as he saw the time. It was just a bit after seven. If he hurried he could make it home before May. But holy fuck, it was after seven. He had just been laying in on the floor of the locker room showers for four hours while life went on around him and no one noticed. School clubs met up and adjourned, people probably stopped right outside the locker room door to talk, and he was just inside on the floor.

 

Why hadn’t he just screamed for help? He was in the middle of a crowded school and he had just kept his mouth shut. He basically gave those guys _permission_ to-

 

Peter shook his head in an attempt to physically shake the thoughts from his mind. He hiked his backpack up onto his shoulders and started the trek back home. The walk was thirty minutes on a good day, even less if Spider-Man was the one making the trip. But Peter could hardly walk, let alone web sling his way home. He’d settle for a hasty limp and pray he got home before his aunt so he could avoid the inevitable onslaught of questions. If he played his cards right he wouldn’t even see her until the next night. He just had to leave for school extra early in the morning.

 

As he made his way down the front steps of the school a sharp pain shot up his back and had him nearly doubling over in agony. Maybe he’d skip school the next day… It wouldn’t be too hard to fake sick since he already constantly felt like he was going to puke.

 

The walk home was pure agony. It took almost twice as long as it usually did as Peter limped his way through the dim streets. The temptation to just suit up and swing his way home was strong, but there was no way he was physically capable of being Spider-Man at that moment. So instead he walked the few miles back to his and his aunt’s apartment, thanking whatever deity that the elevator wasn’t out of order for once.

 

Finally, Peter pushed open the door to the apartment, relieved to find that he had managed to make it home before his aunt. He even had just enough time to get another shower before she got home, because god knows he still felt the dirt under his skin and the sickening scent of bleach still clung to him. Peter made a beeline for the bathroom, only stopping to toss his backpack into his room before stepping into the clean tiled room and locking the door behind him. For the first time, Peter caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. It wasn’t like in the movies. There wasn’t that epic realization that he was now disgusting and untouchable. He didn’t fall to the ground in tears, he didn’t punch the mirror in an attempt to escape the sight of himself or anything like that. He just absently noted that he looked like shit and would probably need to wear hoodies to cover up the bruises on his neck for the next few days until they healed.

 

Again, the wisdom teeth analogy popped up in Peter’s head as he realized he was still numb. Sure the pain had finally hit him and he was sure that so much as breathing was going to hurt like hell for a long time, but emotionally? Nothing. It was like there was an avalanche inside his body. Everything in his chest just collapsed, leaving it hollow and cold. Even as he recalled the events of the night, he just felt- nothing. Pure, nothing.

 

He smiled at his reflection.

 

It smiled back.

 

He felt nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

Shock was a hell of a drug, and as a result, the low that came after the high was a hell of a low. What Peter had intended to be a quick shower had quickly spiraled into the pits of hell. It started when the hollow feeling in his chest turned into a desolate ache before evolving into a sensation like he was being crushed by a boulder. His skin crawled as the realization of what he had gone through finally hit him. He had been actively avoiding the word all night, but alone in the safety of his apartment, the four letters crashed into his brain like a derailed train. What happened to him- it was rape. He had been raped.

 

The air flooded out of his lungs and he collapsed to his knees. _No no no._ Something like this wasn’t possible. Things like this didn’t happen to Peter. Sure bad things happened to him, but they always came with silver linings. He got bit by a spider and he became a super hero. His uncle died, but Tony Stark made him an honorary Avenger. This, though? There was no silver lining. There was no happy ending because it had already ended. It began and ended and now all Peter had was the aftermath. The pins holding him together had fallen out and all that was left was a pile of bruises and pain and fear curled up on the floor.

 

He couldn’t breathe, he was drowning, he was being crushed, the air was being squeezed out of him. His skin was too tight, the walls were too close. He needed to breathe, _needed_ to be okay. He clawed at his wrists like if he ripped the skin open he could use the cuts like gills so he could finally breathe. But nothing happened. There was no satisfying sting or red welts left in the wake of his hands because he didn’t have the means to hurt himself. They had even taken that from him. All he could do was paw uselessly at constricting flesh and remember. Remember the way their hands held him in place on a too cold tile floor. Remember the pain whenever the first guy- and then the pain that had come after when he _wouldn’t stop._ It hurt. It hurt to remember, it hurt to move, it hurt to breathe. Everything was pain and there was nothing Peter could do. His shoulders shook with sobs and he hadn’t even realized he started crying, when did he start crying? His skin itched and crawled and there was too much, too many emotions. They were all inside him, drowning him, settling in his chest with nowhere to go. He couldn’t get rid of them, couldn’t let them out, his skin was holding them in and he couldn’t- there was no way to-

 

He screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also thank you all so much for all the kudos and the comments!!!! I'm so??? Honored??? Also, feel free to hit me up with suggestions and requests for where you'd like to see this go. I do already have a rough outline for what I want to happen, but if the suggestion/request doesn't interfere with my plans, I'd be more than happy to include it! <3


	3. Happy Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May is annoyed that Peter feels the need to hog the shower at the worst possible times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick chappy from May's POV :v

Peter was her kid. It didn’t matter that whenever Peter won yet another award for excellence in whatever his current scientific interest was she couldn’t cross her arms and say ‘he got his brains from me.’ It didn’t matter that they looked nothing alike. It didn’t matter that they weren’t related by blood. It didn’t matter that when May proudly boasted that Peter was her son it was almost always followed up by a ‘is he _really_ yours?’ Because, yes, he was. He was her kid and it didn’t matter if she had to fill out a few adoption papers to make it that way and it didn’t matter that it was her sister-in-law that gave birth to him. He was hers.

 

And just because she couldn’t take credit for providing her kid with the genetics for that big brain of his, it didn’t mean she was stupid. She had her suspicions from the beginning. The way Peter always seemed to be busy when Spider-man made an appearance. The way he went from religiously having dinner with her every Friday night to ‘having a sleepover at Ned’s’ only for him to come home at three in the morning like she wouldn’t hear him shuffling around through the thin walls of their apartment. Of course she was surprised when she saw her kid in the suit, she had been hoping that her suspicions were based purely on coincidence, she had been banking on that, really. So yes, she was shocked, but that didn’t mean she believed Peter when he said he had gotten into cosplaying. He didn’t have a job, and she sure as hell couldn’t afford to give him a weekly allowance big enough that he could afford a costume that nice. She let it slide, though. At least for Peter she did. Stark, however? He got one hell of a phone call that night.

 

But Stark had gotten to know Peter well over the few months that he had been wearing the upgraded Spider-suit, and May had known the kid all his life. They both knew that whether Stark was helping him or not, he’d be on the streets in red and blue, stopping bad guys and saving good ones. Reluctantly, May gave in. The safe-guards that were in Peter’s suit and the access Tony gave her to them were more than enough to placate her. It also helped that she now had Tony Stark’s personal cell phone number to call whenever Peter came home with a limp and a half-baked excuse about tripping down the stairs at school.

 

She never told Peter that she knew. She knew it would only make him feel guilty. He’d redouble his efforts to hide his bruises and make himself even harder to read. She could already hardly stand how much he’d distanced himself from her, she wasn’t sure she could take it if he started giving her the cold shoulder completely.

 

So she kept playing the role as the clueless aunt. Secretly checking in with Stark whenever Peter was out past her secretly established curfew of one a.m. She didn’t let herself worry until after one, it was how she kept sane. It was working so far. And, on the bright side, she didn’t feel as bad about taking up extra shifts at work since she knew Peter would probably be out rescuing cats from trees anyways.

 

She was more tired than usual with all the extra shifts, but it was easier to pay the bills and she could afford to buy a few extra things every now and then. Like the ice cream cake she had picked up after work to celebrate Ben’s birthday.

 

It was hard, moving on without him. And she couldn’t imagine how hard it was for Peter to lose not one, but two father figures. She hoped it wasn’t too morbid, celebrating Ben’s birthday. But it had been a tradition for so long. She always snuck out and picked up a chocolate ice cream cake the night before Ben’s birthday so her and Peter could ‘surprise’ him with it the next day after dinner. Of course it wasn’t really a surprise, but Ben always pretended to be shocked when they brought out the cake, singing their own little version of happy birthday. The thought made her smile as she unlocked the door to the apartment, calling out to let Peter know she was home even though she was sure he was still out doing his spider-thing. She kicked off her shoes on the way to the freezer, tucking the cake away still wrapped in the plastic grocery bag. She’d surprise Peter with it after dinner tomorrow. If he was around for dinner.

 

The sound of running water tipped her off to the fact that Peter was actually home for once. She tried not to feel annoyed that he was getting a shower right then, because even though she would kill a man for a bath after pulling a double shift, Peter was just as busy and tired as she was, if not more. He was a full time student _and_ a super hero. So she could put up with the kid hogging all the hot water. She’d just relax and watch something on Netflix while she waited for Peter to finish up in the bathroom. Maybe she’d rest her eyes a bit…

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

May Parker woke up to the sound of her nephew, no, _her son_ screaming. It wasn’t a scream like Peter had been surprised by something and was quick to recover with a red faced apology. It wasn’t a scream like something bad was happening and he was crying out for help. It was a cry of pain. A long, horrifying, scream. The kind that lasted for a short eternity and made everything in May’s being _ache._ The sound rattled her to her core and made her heart bleed. She was up from her spot on the couch in a second, running through the living room and to the door of the bathroom only to find it locked. Of course. It could never be easy with Peter. No, it had to be earth shattering and terrifying and so, so difficult. Without even thinking, May took a step back before ramming her shoulder into the door as hard as she could.

 

“Shit.” Needless to say, her small frame bounced off the wooden door like she was made of air. Unfortunately for the door, May was desperate and persistent. She hit the door again and again. Peter had stopped screaming at some point, but she heard his pained sobs as she fought to break into the bathroom to help him. It was terrifying that he was just in there seemingly unaware of the hell he was putting his aunt through. It was like he couldn’t hear her ramming into the door, or maybe he did and couldn’t bring himself to face her. It didn’t matter either way. She was coming in. Her shoulder ached like hell and she had banged her head a few times, but eventually, the goddamn door gave way.

 

She didn’t know what she had been expecting to find when she yanked back the shower curtain, but it wasn’t Peter curled into the fetal position, clawing desperately at his skin as water that had long since run cold showered over his small frame. When she pulled the back the curtain, she had every intention of immediately shutting off the water and getting a Peter a towel before finding out what was wrong, but that had all gone out the window in an instant. She could already see what was wrong. Dark bruises glared up at her, decorating Peter’s pale skin in an ugly purple mosaic. The bruising was the heaviest around Peter’s hips, layers of bruising built up from prolonged abuse. What was even worse than that, however, was the teeth marks that littered Peter’s neck and shoulders.

 

Everything felt wrong. Like she had gone away for a long time and when she came back her apartment didn’t quite feel the same as when she left, like it wasn’t home anymore. It was the same kind of ache in her chest. The kind of ache that came with knowing that something had changed and it was never going to go back to the way it was. She didn’t even have to ask Peter what had happened. Even though every fiber of her being denied it, she knew. She could see the evidence right in front of her. She could see it in the distinctly hand-shaped bruises on Peter’s thighs and she could hear it in the way that Peter brokenly begged someone that wasn’t there to stop, to please _‘please god, it hurts, please stop.’_ And her heart shattered.

 

Grabbing a towel, May turned off the shower, the action finally getting Peter’s attention. His mindless begging stopped and the glazed over look in his eyes became something more alert as he finally realized that he was home and not wherever he thought he was. She gently draped the towel over Peter’s shoulders and ran a hand through his wet hair.  He was still absent-mindedly scratching at his wrist with one hand and May reached down to still it only for her stomach to fall through the goddamn floor. She thought she had seen the worst of his injuries, but this? Whoever had done this didn’t just want to hurt Peter, they wanted to _torture_ him. “Peter, honey-“

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

The words felt like a punch to the gut and May had to take a deep, shaky breath to keep her composure. She had to be strong for Peter. She could cry later with the t.v. turned up so Peter couldn’t hear and blame himself like he was doing now. But right now she needed to put on a brave face and wipe the tears from Peter’s cheeks and _fix this_ because that was her job. Because Peter was her kid.

 

May took Peter’s ruined hands in hers and stared at anything but the bite marks and bruises that marred her kid’s skin. “No, you listen here Peter Benjamin Parker, you have _nothing_ to apologize for. _NOTHING._ This isn’t your fault.”

 

“But-“

 

“No.” Another deep breath. She was angry, yes, but not at Peter. She was angry at whoever hurt him. Furious. Straight up murderous, even. But Peter didn’t need to see her rage. He needed to see a soft smile and a promise that this would get better. “I know you’ve probably come up with a million ways to blame yourself for this by now, but it is _not_ your fault.” She pulled Peter into a tight hug, her heart aching as she felt his shoulders shake with sobs she knew he was trying to keep quiet for her sake. “How would you feel about celebrating Ben’s birthday early this year?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what y'all are thinking. 'Wow Grape, going from one update every six months to two in as many weeks? What's the catch?' The catch is that I'm still an inconsistent bitch. Next chappy'll be from Peter's point of view. Unless I change my mind in the next 30 seconds before I start writing it.


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